


Lullaby: The Southern Comfort Remix

by Mara



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M, Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mara/pseuds/Mara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A faint heart never true love knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby: The Southern Comfort Remix

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/995) by Akire. 



> This fic was written for the Remix/Redux II Challenge. Thanks to akire for writing such a lovely story to begin with :) The poem used in the original story as well as my remix is Lullaby by WH Auden.

Trip could never pinpoint when he fell in love, although it seemed like he should be able to. Shouldn't there be a moment when his heart stopped, his breath caught, his whole world turned inside out?

But there wasn't. Malcolm became his friend, part of his life, then an essential part. A day wasn't complete without at least a few minutes talking to him, even if it was just an argument about power transfer to the phase cannons.

Damn, the man could get under his skin. But he was the most fascinating mix of erudition and machismo. And he--Trip winced--smelled so nice.

No question, he had it bad. But what to do now? How did one go a courtin' a brilliant, moody, cantankerous, sexy British armory officer? It was a terrifying thought, but nothing ventured, nothing gained had always been his motto.

Sitting at his desk, late in the ship's night, Trip contemplated the question of what to do. Slowly, he dropped his head in his hands, staring at his desk's smooth surface just in front of his nose.

Desk.

Writing.

Love letter?

God, no.

Poetry?

But he was no poet.

What about...

Trip sat up, hit by a bolt of lightning. Nothing wrong with borrowing the words of a better poet, right? Still staring blankly at the desk, the plan unfolded in his mind like a warp engine redesign, each part fitting neatly into the others.

* * *

The paper and ink came from his mother, who'd always had a nostalgic streak. Trip suspected this wasn't exactly the purpose she'd had in mind when she gave him the writing supplies the day before Enterprise launched. He consoled himself with the fact that she was going to adore Malcolm.

Although perhaps he was getting ahead of himself just a bit.

The stack of thick, creamy paper and the fancy pen mocked him as he dithered. He picked up the pen, put it down, picked it up, started to put it down, and stopped.

God, what a wimp. Right. Time to start writing.

It took him five tries to get a clean copy, several hours of sweating and cursing and careful looping calligraphy, just the way he remembered his mother teaching him.

Yup, sentimental and nostalgic streak a mile wide, his momma had. And it looked like he'd inherited it.

The finished page was folded carefully in quarters and torn, leaving one-fourth of the poem on each piece.

Two days later, he walked down the corridor, nonchalance oozing from every pore, nodding at a passing crewman, then pausing just long enough to tape a folded quarter of paper to Malcolm's door with a tiny piece of tape. On the way down to the armory, he imagined Malcolm opening the door, finding the paper, and reading its words.

Lay your sleeping head, my love,  
Human on my faithless arm;  
Time and fevers burn away  
Individual beauty from  
Thoughtful children, and the grave  
Proves the child ephemeral:  
But in my arms till break of day  
Let the living creature lie,  
Mortal, guilty, but to me  
The entirely beautiful.

Please, if there was a God, let Malcolm understand.

* * *

It was easy enough to leave the second piece at Malcolm's station in the armory. Everyone knew to avoid the area at this time of day, leaving it free for Malcolm to roam, inspect, and generally survey his domain.

The gray steel and black paneling made an unusual background for his missive, and Trip paused for a moment in panic. But the first note had been delivered, it was too late to turn back now.

Holding his breath, he placed the folded note where it couldn't be missed.

The words waited for Malcolm to arrive.

Soul and body have no bounds:  
To lovers as they live upon  
Her tolerant enchanted slope  
In their ordinary swoon,  
Grave the vision Venus sends  
Of supernatural sympathy,  
Universal love and hope;  
While an abstract insight wakes  
Among the glaciers and the rocks  
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.

* * *

Trip nodded politely and ate a spoonful of chicken soup as Travis kept him apprised of the latest gossip. The messhall was at its busiest, voices bouncing around the small space like racquetballs and Trip's eyes kept drifting toward the door, worried that just this once Malcolm would leave his post early. If he had to face him before the game was played out, who knew what embarrassing thing he might do or say.

"Commander?"

"Hmm?" He looked back at Travis, who laughed and speared a tomato out of his salad.

"Commander, were you listening to a word I said?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm just a little distracted. It's so noisy and I've got this manifold that's giving us trouble. Guess my heart's not in conversation today."

Hoshi was probably staring at the envelope right now, wishing she could open it. She wouldn't do that, would she? Or what if she forgot to deliver it? He nearly dropped his fork in panic. It didn't matter. It was time to implement the final phase of his plan, even if his heart did feel like it was going to explode out of his chest in some really messy way.

"If you're that worried about the repair, maybe you should head to engineering now," Travis said, staring at him with obvious concern.

"I think that's a great idea, Travis. I'll just, um, go back to work. You can tell me about Ensign Hart's date tomorrow."

"It was Crewman Lau, sir," Travis called after him, laughing again.

"Whatever!"

He forced himself to walk normally as he wound his way through the crew quarters. In his mind, he didn't see gray walls, he saw the green loops of his own handwriting on the note he'd left that morning for Hoshi to deliver. And he saw the words Malcolm should be receiving soon.

Certainty, fidelity  
On the stroke of midnight pass  
Like vibrations of a bell  
And fashionable madmen raise  
Their pedantic boring cry:  
Every farthing of the cost,  
All the dreaded cards foretell,  
Shall be paid, but from this night  
Not a whisper, not a thought,  
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Soon, Trip told himself. Soon he'd know. One way or the other.

As he typed in the engineering override on the door lock, Trip hoped he wasn't throwing his career and his life out an airlock. He sent a fervent prayer to the heavens, grabbed the leatherbound folio off the shelf and sat on the edge of the bunk.

The lights were low, but he had the words memorized anyway, so it wouldn't matter.

Trip listened to the sounds of the shower, the faint humid scent making him want to take deep breaths. He concentrated on relaxing and clearing his mind.

The shower stopped after an eternity and he could hear Malcolm moving around, then the door opened and he emerged, toweling his hair dry. Trip nearly gasped when he realized the words Malcolm was muttering were from the poem. He watched Malcolm stride to the bookshelf and look in vain for the book he held in his hands.

He gathered his courage as Malcolm frantically searched the desk, then cleared his throat.

Malcolm whirled, surprised but ready for a fight.

Trip stared down at the book, vision blurring as he focused his mind on the words, the all-important words. He wondered if his voice sounded as hoarse as it felt.

"Beauty, midnight, vision dies," Trip said. He heard Malcolm shift.

"Let the winds of dawn that blow  
Softly round your dreaming head  
Such a day of welcome show  
Eye and knocking heart may bless,  
Find our mortal world enough"

His voice gave out for a second. What was he doing? Malcolm was going to kill him, he--

Malcolm moved slowly into his peripheral vision and sat gently on the edge of the bed. Maybe...

"Noons of dryness find you fed  
By the involuntary powers,  
Nights of insult let you pass."

Swallowing, willing his stomach to settle, he finally raised his eyes in order to recite the final line.

"Watched by every human love." Malcolm looked a bit shell-shocked and Trip closed the book and looked down, courage giving out all at once.

Silence fell for long enough for his heart to stop.

"Why?"

"What?" His head shot up, confused by the question.

"Why did you go to all this effort?"

"You didn't like it?"

"Of course I did. It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, to be honest."

Trip felt his face get warm. "I wanted...I didn't know what to say."

"I think," Malcolm said very deliberately, "you found the right words."

The air was still warm from Malcolm's shower and Trip found himself fascinated by a bead of water trailing down his neck. Then their eyes met and he wanted nothing more than to kiss the other man.

Malcolm leaned forward a fraction and that was enough. Trip put his hands on those gloriously damp shoulders and drew him in, lips touching, tongues darting out.

When they drew back, Malcolm smiled. "Read to me."

Trip laughed, feeling more alive than he had in years. He dragged the book onto his lap and wound the other around Malcolm's waist. "Lay your sleeping head, my love..."

\--end--


End file.
